


There's Something In The Walls

by eight_0f_hearts



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: and a mystery, and slow build Morse-Jakes friendship, basically a team bonding story, case-fic!, just good old awkward rivals to friends, so as not to falsely advertise i should note that this is not shippy, with forcible room sharing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-08 23:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1960671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eight_0f_hearts/pseuds/eight_0f_hearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the depths of winter, Morse, Thursday and Jakes head out to a remote country town to solve a murder. Due to a terribly inconvenient turn in the weather, they end up snowed into a mansion with their suspects, who begin to be picked off one by one.</p><p>As if things could not possibly get any worse, Jakes and Morse are forced to share a room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [safelystowed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/safelystowed/gifts).



> NOTE: Because this is a casefic, there is a bunch of OCs, but they're all tied into the mystery and will develop so that Morse (and you) can figure stuff out! Don't worry though, they'll soon begin to be killed off... we are trapped in a house with a murderer after all. Bwahahaha.

By the time the train rattled into the station in the little country town of Cliffpond, the awkward silence had been stretching on for three hours and Morse could tell that Thursday was growing a little irritated. He had run out of newspaper with which to hide behind thirty minutes ago and was now reduced to smoking his pipe and watching his detective sergeant shoot his constable filthy looks every few minutes.

Morse had been attempting to distract himself with the case file and a particularly difficult crossword, but as they approached their destination he decided in the interests of working together he ought to extend the olive branch.

“I did apologise,” he said, turning to Jakes.

The other man gave a mighty sniff. “Yes, thank you, Morse. Your apology will not get back my enjoyment of the film.”

“I don't see why you're making such a big fuss about it. The book came out two years ago.”

“Well, I hadn't  _read it yet_ , had I?”

“It's not like I did it deliberately. We weren't even talking to you.”

“No, just loudly enough that the entire  _office_ could hear you.”

Thursday cleared his throat loudly and they both snapped around to look at him. With a raised eyebrow, he gestured out the window.

“If you two are quite done, you'll find that we have arrived,” he said.

Morse looked away, slightly embarrassed about letting Jakes get such a rise out of him. He gave a hiss of irritation when Jakes made a point of elbowing him aside to get out of the carriage, but held his peace, grabbing his small case from the luggage cart as they disembarked.

As soon as they left the train station they were met with a blast of cold air. It had been freezing in Oxford and was little better three hours to the north. The sky was overcast and nearly white, the air biting with a frigid dampness to it that made him shiver and jam his free hand in the pocket of his coat in a meagre effort to keep his fingers warm. Even Thursday gave a little grunt of dismay at the unlucky weather.

Cliffpond was a tiny little town in a remote area of farmland where there were more livestock than there were people. Everything about it, as seen from the station, was entirely unextraordinary – a small pub, a little shopping district and a post office, a couple of townhouses, though not many, for most of the residents lived out on the farms. It was so small that everything was within walking distance, and they made their way to the inn to drop off their bags before heading to the scene of the crime: a rather dingy alleyway between the general store and a hunting shop.

They were barely two steps in when a weedy man inserted himself into their path with a scowl.

“Whatta you lot want here, this is a crime scene!”

“Oxford City Police,” Thursday replied, whipping out his badge, and the man's frown deepened. He was an unattractive young fellow; long and skinny with lank, greasy hair, gangly limbs he didn't seem to quite know what to do with, and a spotty chin.

“S'pose you can take a look then,” he grumbled, stepping aside.

The body was lying at the far end of the alley. De Bryn was crouched over it. He had driven over, and as such had arrived a good deal earlier than the rest of them. Beside him was Inspector Beckett of the country police, an absolutely massive fellow with a round red face and impressive whiskers.

“Ah,” De Bryn said, straightening at their approach. “You're here. Good. We can't leave this fellow here much later; I'm afraid he's turning a bit rank.”

At that moment the wind changed, gusting towards them, and Morse quite nearly passed out from the smell. Rank was an understatement; a mix of bloated flesh left too long in the rain and mud, dried blood, burst bowels and rubbish from the alleyway. Beside him Jakes gave a muffled sort of grunt.

“See what I mean?” De Bryn said drily. He rubbed his hands together. “So let's get down to business, shall we?”

Thursday stepped forward, lifting his sleeve up over his nose. Morse dared a glimpse at the body, lying face-down in the street, limbs sprawled askew. He immediately regretted this decision. There was a deep, thin red line cut across the man's throat, nearly severing his head, blood spilling out from beneath in a dirty red smear on the cobbled path.

“Garrotted,” De Bryn declared. “Time of death approximately sixteen hours ago, which puts it at about seven pm last night. Definitely the same person as the last one; from what I can see the ligature marks were made from the same sort of thin wire. That little twist at the end there, see where it cuts a bit deeper into the flesh? Same as the last victim. We'll know more once I cart him back to Oxford for the post-mortem, of course.”

He plucked his gloves off and raised his eyebrows at them.

“Was anything else found at the scene?” Morse asked.

Inspector Beckett spoke up, in his hearty rumble. “Ay- a train ticket, keys, wallet – nothing appeared to be stolen. All bagged and back at the station already.”

“If that's all, I'll be on my way,” De Bryn said. He looked rather eager to be out of there. Morse could hardly blame him; the weather had taken a turn for the worse as they walked, storm clouds brewing on the horizon and the damp chill in the air growing ever stronger.

Beckett stepped forward and hummed over the body, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Glad to have you with us, Thursday,” he said, rather too cheerfully. “We've not had a murder in this little town for... well, I can't even remember the last one. Since this appears to be connected to your ongoing case, I'll suppose I'll just leave things entirely in your hands!”

Thursday gave him a measuring look. “Who's the victim?”

“One Richard Cunningham,” Beckett replied, “Or so we gather. The family's not ID'd the body yet.”

“He from around here?”

Beckett shook his head. “His brother is – got a big manor down near Bailey's farm. This one was a town boy, from what I've heard. They're all up there at the moment, though, some sort of family reunion. I fancy that's where Richard was off to when he got jumped.”

“Right,” Thursday said. “Well, we'll be off to talk to them, of course.”

Beckett nodded eagerly. “Yes, yes.” His eyes flickered over to Morse and Jakes, and then to his own fellow police officer, the sour looking beanpole. “Might I introduce Sergeant Timothy Crunch,” he said, pushing the young man forward. “He'll help you with anything you need around town. Timothy, make sure these fellows have access to all the evidence we bagged before, ay?”

“Of course,” Crunch said, and gave them a rather dirty look for no apparent reason. It seemed he was not very happy to have the city police interfering in his town's business.

“Sergeant Jakes and Constable Morse,” Thursday replied, looking quite unimpressed. “Let's head off then, shall we?”

Beckett trundled off with De Bryn, arranging for the body to be sent back to Oxford for a post-mortem, which left Crunch to take the others to the family. He remained exceedingly sour while doing so. Morse got the impression that he was a rather petulant little man.

It was a relief to get out of the alley and into the fresh air, even if it was bitterly cold. Crunch led them over to his car, a battered little bomb of a thing. Thursday claimed shotgun which left Morse and Jakes to cram into the backseat, knees folded practically up to their chests in the small space. Crunch violently pulled at the ignition and after several attempts the car started with an alarming rumble and creaked off down the road.

“This manor,” Thursday said. “How far out is it?”

“Few miles,” Crunch replied. “Didn't see much of the owner, Daniel Cunningham. He lived there alone, with his servants. Wife was divorced. He died last week and everyone was coming over for the funeral and the will.”

“Strange that the killer should strike again here,” Morse mused. “So far from Oxford. The two killings must have been related.”

There was little to discuss in relation to the case yet. Usually such drives took place in a companionable silence, but with Crunch practically radiating hostility, it was instead rather strained. It took them forty minutes of driving through the countryside before a large manor appeared on the side of a hill up ahead. It was a very grand affair; three storeys high built of redbrick with white pillars and expansive gardens to the front. White sheep dotted the hills just beyond. They pulled up in the drive where several other, rather more expensive looking cars were already parked, as well as a large motorbike.

“Here you are then,” Crunch muttered, and proceeded to linger awkwardly.

“You'll be back to the station then?” Thursday prompted, and Crunch scratched his nose.

“Thought I'd hang around, help you lot out,” he said.

Thursday glanced at Morse, who stared back. It seemed impolite to refuse, however, so the inspector just shrugged, and Crunch tagged along as they went up to the door and rang. They were let in by a butler, who led them through empty hallways full of plush red carpet and far too many items of furniture with clawed feet until they reached a study.

“Ma'am,” the butler said, knocking at the door. “The police are here.”

“The police?” a deep, female voice inquired. “Whatever for?”

“I'm afraid we have some bad news,” Thursday called out. The butler stepped aside and they entered the study.

A middle aged woman was seated behind the desk. She rose at their entrance, staring at them challengingly with icy blue eyes surrounded by masses of tiny creases. Her blonde hair was pulled into an austere coif, not a wisp out of place, and her lipstick was a shade of severe maroon.

“Whatever is going on?” she repeated.

“Are you related to one Mr Richard Cunningham?” Thursday asked.

She nodded. “Yes. He's my brother in law. Why, is he in trouble? He was due to arrive last night. He telephoned from London just before he left.”

“I'm afraid we've just found the body of a man we highly suspect to be him.”

It was always a terrible job delivering the news of someone's murder, and Morse was quite glad that Thursday was the one to deal with it this time.

As it was, the woman took it remarkably well. Her lips pressed together and she frowned slightly, as though taking it in.

“Oh dear,” she said finally.

Morse frowned. She didn't seem too bothered.

Thursday seemed a bit taken aback by her lack of reaction. “Might I ask your name, Miss...?”

“Helen,” she replied. “Helen Cunningham. Well, this is a fine business! First my husband and now his brother. How did it happen? Was he hit by a car? He has a tendency to jaywalk.”

“No. I'm afraid he has been murdered,” Thursday uttered, and at this her gaze snapped up sharply. It swept across each of them before settling back on the inspector.

“You're not Inspector Beckett,” she said sharply. She sat back behind the desk, but did not offer any of them a chair.

“No,” Thursday replied. “We're Oxford City Police. We believe there may be a connection between Richard's murder and another that took place back in the city. I understand you're holding a family reunion at the moment.”

She nodded. “We've been discussing Daniel's property. He didn't leave a will. Dreadfully careless man.”

“Well, we'll need to ask you a few questions.”

“Of course,” she said, and then sighed heavily as though this was all a terrible inconvenience.

Morse spoke up then. “Did Richard have any connection to a man named Jay Barathal?”

“I don't know much about his work. You're better off asking Hugh, his brother – he's staying here at the moment. I've never heard the name.”

Morse continued, “You can think of no reason anyone would have wanted to harm him?”

“Not as far as I know. Look, he was my brother in law, we weren't close. I'd been separated from my husband for ten years. You really ought to ask Hugh.”

Thursday gave a curt nod. “Right. Well, Crunch here will take down the details of Richard's travel plans from you.”

Crunch opened his mouth as though to protest being given this menial task, but a withering look from Thursday silenced him, and he settled for letting out an irritated huff of breath before whipping out his notebook.

“My butler will take you to Hugh's room,” Helen informed them.

* * *

  
Hugh Cunningham was an incredibly worried looking old fellow. His wispy grey eyebrows were located high on his forehead, giving him a perpetually surprised sort of look. When he heard the news of his brother's death he sat down heavily in a chair and began to tremble all over.

“Oh dear,” he croaked. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. And you said Jay was murdered too? By the same hand? Oh God above, I'm next!”

Morse perked up. “You're next?”

“Yes,” he wailed, “I'm next! We all worked together!”

The three detectives exchanged glances. They hadn't had time to search for a connection between Jay and Richard yet, but here it was being served to them on a platter.

“Where did you work?” Thursday inquired.

Hugh rubbed at the bald spot on his head. “We were all on the board of directors at Cheriton Pharmaceuticals. I've retired by now, Jay too – Richard was going to next year.”

“Who else was on this board?” Thursday demanded.

“Five others. Two already dead, natural causes. I can give you a list of names.” Hugh was white as a sheet, his voice shaking so much they could barely hear what he was saying. “Both my brothers gone! Oh dear Lord, this is a nightmare.”

“Can we get him a cup of strong tea,” Thursday asked the butler, who nodded and swiftly stepped out.

“Mr Cunningham, is there anyone who would want to harm the people on this board?” Jakes asked, and Hugh nodded vigorously.

“Yes – plenty of people! We made some very controversial decisions when it came to the marketing and distribution of drugs.”

“A little more specificity would help,” Thursday muttered, and Hugh glanced up at him.

“We made a great many enemies. I don't know anyone  _specific_. Where... how did it happen?” he inquired.

“Alleyway down in the town. Garrotted.”

Hugh blanched even further. “What! Right here? Just a few miles away from the house?”

“I'm afraid so-” Thursday broke off with a shout of surprise as Hugh promptly toppled out of his chair in a dead faint, landing on the thick carpet with a soft  _thump_.

There was a moment of stunned silence.

“...he didn't take that too well,” Jakes commented.

Morse had gone to the man's side, but he appeared to have merely passed out from the shock. He began to prop him up when footsteps sounded in the hallway and a young black man popped his head into the room.

“What's going on?” he demanded. “Who are you?”

* * *

  
By the time Hugh Cunningham came to, they had managed to round up every family member staying in the house and briefed them on what, exactly, was going on. Morse kept a careful eye on each of them, not wanting to rule out anyone as a suspect – but they had all already been at the house and dined together at the time of the murder, so unless there was an  _Orient Express_ sort of thing going on here, they all had a solid alibi.

The dynamic of the family certainly made for an intriguing case, however – especially when they were all gathered in one room.

Helen Cunningham, the strict matriarch of the family, well removed from any affection towards her late husband or his siblings.

Her son Alex, adopted from a family friend who had passed away when he was very young. Morse couldn't quite place him; he was a serious fellow with a closed-off face, though his dark eyes had something cold and calculated about them that he didn't particularly like.

Helen's younger sister Sybil, a flighty, overly made-up woman who took the news of the murder rather hard and had to prop her feet up and sniff vigorously at some smelling salts.

Sybil's son Fitzwilliam, or 'Fitz'; a large, brash fellow with something vaguely Asian about his features. Aside from his mother, everybody in the family seemed to rather dislike him, if the way they all pointedly sat on the opposite side of the room was anything to go by. He was a leather clad fellow in his late twenties, with a scruffy chin and a rather unattractive mullet.

Hugh Cunningham's daughter Cecily, an owlish young woman with bright red lipstick and pencil-thin eyebrows who gawped around at them all and seemed to find her uncle's murder rather exciting.

And finally, Robert, a distant cousin. A quiet, bookish man with a nervous compulsion towards cleaning the lens of his spectacles on the edge of his jumper every few minutes.

Hugh had been dragged onto a recliner by the fire, and he began to stir just as Thursday finished explaining to everyone what was going on.

“Water,” he croaked rather dramatically, “Give me water!”

“Here you go, father,” Cecily said, dutifully passing him a glass. She turned back to Thursday with eyes round as saucers. “I can hardly believe it! Killed just a few miles away from here!”

“Bit strange he was wandering through a back alley, if you ask me,” Fitz commented loudly. “Practically asking to be mugged.”

“Well, he wasn't mugged,” Thursday said. “He was  _murdered_.”

Hugh gave a great wail as he swung his legs over the side of the recliner. “And I'm telling you, I'm going to be next! Why else would the murderer come all the way out to Pondcliff except to kill two birds with one stone?”

“Cliffpond,” Helen said drily. “You are in  _Cliffpond_.”

He flapped a hand at her as he rose over and strode right up to Thursday, who stared at him, looking rather unamused.

“You have to help me!”

“Sir, that's what we're here for.”

“No, no, you have to  _protect me_ ,” Hugh said. He spun around, grabbed a rather startled Morse by the arm and promptly clung to him. “I'm not leaving your side.”

Jakes raised a hand to his mouth to cover a snort as Morse tried in vain to discreetly tug his arm away. Fitz did not take such care, and promptly cracked up, nearly falling off his chair with laughter as his family shot him rather disdainful looks.

Thursday raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I'm not leaving you lot until this murderer is found!” Hugh insisted. “I'll be safe with you.”

“Hugh, don't be such a drama queen,” Helen snapped. “You're perfectly safe in this house.”

“Anyone could break in through a window! Or pay off the butler!” Hugh cried. Said butler shot him a rather dirty look, and he blanched. “No offence. You... you have to stay here too,” he said, staring at Thursday. “You're not heading back to the city, are you?”

Thursday shook his head. “We're staying down at the inn for a few days while we follow up leads here.”

“Perfect! That pub is rubbish, stay here instead. We have room.”

“Thank you for lending out my house without my permission,” Helen said drily, and Hugh rounded on her, spittle flying.

“It's not  _your house_ , Helen. We've not decided who gets what yet.”

“I think it's a marvellous idea,” Cecily piped up. Her eyes were fixed on Thursday and there was a strange little smile playing at her lips. “I'd feel a lot safer with the police here!”

“Then it's settled!” Hugh said. He dropped Morse's arm, to his great relief, and nodded vigorously. “You'll stay here.”

“Very well,” Thursday replied. “We're heading back to the town now to look into a few things, but I'll need one of you to come with and ID the body.”

“I shall,” Hugh said instantly.

He proceeded to walk intensely close to Thursday's side as they left the house, as though he feared that at any moment a murderer would leap out of nowhere and strangle him.

They got back into the car, except with Hugh now part of the party it meant that three people were now crammed into the backseat. He insisted on sitting in the middle, claiming it was 'safest', which meant that Morse was now squashed against the car door with his face practically pressed against the window.

“Lord give me strength,” he heard Jakes mutter, and couldn't help but agree. This looked like it was going to be a long case.

* * *

  
Morse was actually freezing.

He was pretty sure that there was ice forming on the ends of his hair, because it had rained all over them (and of course none of them had an umbrella, and of course Timothy Crunch refused to share with anyone except Thursday) and then the temperature had just  _dropped_ and the rain had turned into snow and he was fairly certain he had never experienced a winter this cold before. It didn't get this cold in the city.

“You need to invest in a winter coat,” Thursday informed him as they made their way across the street to the pub. The rain had stopped but the snow was still coming down in gentle, picturesque flakes that belied their true evil freezing potential. “I can hear your teeth chattering from over here.”

Morse opened his mouth but couldn't quite think of anything to say to that except for an adamant “Yes.”

The macintosh served him well but it was built for the wet more than the cold.

They finally stepped into the pub and there was instant  _warmth_ ; a roaring fire in the heart, the insulation of layers of corkwood and drapery and the body heat of what seemed to be the entire population of the town crammed into one small building.

Thursday was elbowing his way towards a table when Morse felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see Hugh Cunningham.

The man had accompanied them to the police station where he had nearly passed out again at the sight of his brother's body, but had finally managed to make a tremulous ID. He had also revealed that nothing, as far as he knew, had been stolen, confirming their suspicions that the sole motive of the murder must be in connection with the pharmaceutical company.

“Yes?” Morse asked.

Hugh shifted on his feet. “I, ah, I need to go to visit the restroom.”

“And?” Oh good Lord this could not be going where he thought it was going. Hugh was a grown man, for crying out loud.

“Well, it's where you're most vulnerable, isn't it?” Hugh began.

For a moment Morse struggled to comprehend the sheer  _idiocy_  of the man's paranoia. Surely he didn't seriously want to be accompanied to the  _bathroom_.

After a moment of opening and shutting his mouth, he forced a nod. “Uh, yes. I'm sure Crunch will be happy to take care of you.”

Unfortunately he had underestimated the determination of Crunch, who shook his head with a steely glint in his eyes.

“Excuse me,  _constable_ , but I'm afraid that as a  _sergeant_  I will have to take a rain check on that. I think your protection should be sufficient in making sure no one assassinates Mr Cunningham while he's doing his business.”

Morse narrowed his eyes. So they were going to play the rank game, were they? Well! Well well!

...unfortunately, he very quickly realised that when it came to the rank game he was at a distinct disadvantage. He had resigned himself to escorting Hugh Cunningham to the gents when Jakes, who had been standing nearby, abruptly spoke up.

“Morse, looks like the governor's calling you,” he said.

Morse glanced across the room. Thursday was not calling him, he was rather engrossed in studying the pub's lunchtime menu.

“Do us a favour Crisp, take care of Cunningham while we see what he wants?” Jakes continued, and promptly propelled Morse across the room to Timothy's indignant holler of “My name is  _Crunch_.”

“Thanks,” he began, but Jakes flapped a hand at him.

“You owe me one. Thank God we got rid of that worm.”

“Crunch or Hugh?”

“ _Both_ of them. Jesus Christ.”

Morse had learned by now that Jakes had an exceptionally low tolerance for things that he deemed irritating. While he himself happened to be one of said things, it seemed that for now there were others higher up on the list.

Thursday looked up as they sat down opposite him. “Ah. You managed to rid us of the pestilence, then.”

“If only momentarily,” Jakes replied, with a rather wistful sigh, and lit what Morse suspected was a stress-related cigarette.

“Right. Well. First round's on me.” Thursday summoned the waiter and placed his order, which involved beer and sandwiches. It seemed he was missing his usual pre-packed lunch. Morse ordered a hot soup in an effort to thaw his frozen innards.

“No leads on the body, then,” Jakes said, once they had all sent for their lunch. “I suppose the murderer's not dumb enough to hang around in such a small town.”

“If he is, it's likely he's in here with us right now. Everyone else seems to be,” Thursday replied, casting a suspicious glance around.

Morse shook his head. “He hasn't fled. I looked into the locations of the others on that board Cunningham told us about. They all live north of here. He's doing this methodically – which means that Hugh's right, he's next. The killer's still here somewhere. Most likely in the farmland or the forestry. The town's too small to stay here without arousing suspicion.”

“I've sent back to the station to get some files on Cheriton,” Thursday informed them. “So we can at least begin to get an idea of who would want these people dead. What do you think of the family, Morse?”

He frowned, biting his lip thoughtfully. “Hard to say yet. I don't think any of them were particularly close to the deceased.”

“This couldn't be some sort of ploy to get Richard out of the running for the will?”

“No, otherwise why would Jay Barathal have been killed in Oxford? Besides, there is no will. Which is strange in and of itself.”

There was a moment of silence in which they all sipped their beers.

“Bad weather out,” Thursday began.

Morse shook his head. They had hit the weather-talk already, which was never a good sign. He realised that this would be the first time a case carried them all out of town for an overnight trip. He'd halved the occasional stake-out with Jakes and pulled a few all-nighters at the office or at crime scenes with Strange, but nothing like this.

Fortunately they were saved from dismally awkward conversation as Crunch and Hugh returned to the table, at the same time as their food. Crunch shot both Jakes and Morse a glare and 'accidentally' bumped Morse's beer, sending some of it spilling into his soup.

“'scuse,” he said snidely.

“No worries,” Morse replied coldly as he stirred it with his spoon in an attempt to salvage the situation.

Thursday glanced between them but made no comment.

“So!” Hugh said. Due to his nerves he had decided to avoid fibres and had a single boiled egg perched in the middle of his plate. “What's the plan, then? To catch this fiend?”

“Well,” Thursday said. “What we need now is a solid suspect. We'll begin asking around town and scouring the surrounding farmland – Cliffpond's small enough that any newcomers would be fairly apparent. I'm having some files relating to your company couriered over so we can look into why someone would decide to strike out now.”

A thought struck Morse. “Where do you normally live?”

“Me?” Hugh asked. “London."

“How many people knew that you and Richard would be coming to Cliffpond this week?”

Hugh scratched his head. “Uhh. Not a great many. More might have known about Richie. It was quite a last minute thing – poor Daniel died very suddenly. I only made the travel arrangements a few days before.”

“Might've seen the obituary column and assumed,” Jakes suggested.

Morse shrugged, stowing the information in the back of his mind for later use.

For a few moments there was silence but for the clinking of cutlery. Hugh had examined his egg from all angles and now delicately scraped off a slice. He inspected it closely and then opened his mouth to speak, but promptly shut it again when Jakes gave him a deeply poisonous look. No. No, there would be no testing of the food to ensure it was safe.

“File's being sent back to the manor,” Thursday said, as they gathered their coats after the meal. “One of you lot should go back there and question the servants until it arrives – best to be thorough.”

Before any of them could volunteer Crunch, he spoke up.

“I'll come out to the farms with you – I know the area best. Ought to rope in Inspector Beckett, too, we can cover more ground that way.”

Thursday nodded. “Makes sense. Morse, you head back then.”

“What about me?” Hugh asked.

“You're safest in the house,” Thursday replied. “You might be able to shed more light on the company matters.”

The snow had gotten heavier as they ate, piling a few inches high and crunching under their shoes, covering the roads in a thin slick of treacherous ice. A howling wind had started up that instantly snatched Thursday's hat off his head and sent it careening off down the street.

Crunch sprinted after it but slipped on the icy ground and landed heavily on his backside. Morse jogged past him and snatched the hat up when it came to rest by the side of the road. He dusted it off but it was now rather damp, and when he handed it back to Thursday the man looked at it in dismay and decided not to put it back on.

“Uh, thank you, Morse. Crunch.” He waffled for a moment before pointing towards the station. “You drive Hugh back up to the house. We'll borrow Beckett's vehicles to do our scouting."

“Wait, you're taking my car?” Crunch demanded.

“How else am I meant to get back to the manor?” Morse asked.

“You could have brought your own.”

“What, on the train?” he replied, decidedly leaving out the fact that he did not own a car. Crunch looked very displeased at this turn of events, and as the others headed off for the police station he caught Morse's arm and pulled him back towards him.

“Not a scratch on her, you hear me?”

Morse stared at him. “Alright, alright.”

He thought that was rather fine considering the car was falling to bits anyway. Hugh Cunningham was watching them nervously, and Crunch quickly released him and headed off after the others, nearly slipping a few more times as he went.

* * *

  
“-and last I heard shares had gone up 20%. So we were doing rather well,” Hugh said as they began to pull up towards the manor hill. He had been outlining the state of the company and the various deals they had recently undertaken.

Morse was forming an idea of Cheriton as an ultimately well meaning company. Its products were regularly tested and manufactured efficiently enough that they were affordable to the common consumer. However the process of testing and manufacturing may or may not have involved a few shady overseas production sites that various other organisations did not find particularly tasteful. Hugh hadn't been joking when he said they had a lot of enemies; both on the fronts of social justice, local employment patriots and rival pharmaceutical companies.

As they pulled into the drive a figure on a motorbike abruptly careened past them, nicking the side of the car. Morse wrenched the wheel sideways and the car skidded and screeched across the icy ground to crash into a large nearby piece of topiary.

Hugh gave a bloodcurdling scream and curled up in an airline emergency brace position.

Morse twisted around in his seat. The motorcyclist had leaped off his bike and was hurrying towards them, fumbling with the straps of his helmet. He turned to Hugh and shook his shoulder.

“Are you injured?” The man was whimpering so much that he half thought he'd been impaled on something.

Hugh peeked out from his folded arms like a snail emerging from its shell. “Are we safe?”

“We're fine.” He reversed the car and parked it properly. The eight foot tall bush trimmed into the shape of the statue of David now had a rather unfortunate hole in its crotch.

Hugh stumbled out of the car and proceeded to bend over, hands braced on his knees, breathing heavily. Morse got out to inspect the damage and winced. The side mirror was bent at an angle and the paintwork had been scratched by the branches in the hedge. Then again, the paint had already been patchy at best. Perhaps Crunch wouldn't notice.

...who was he kidding. Of course Crunch was going to notice.

“Oh, shit, are you guys okay?” The cyclist had pulled his helmet off. It was Fitz, striding towards them, mullet whipping around in the strong wind. “You right, uncle?” He wandered over to Hugh and patted him on the back only to be swatted away.

“You stupid stupid boy!” Hugh cried, straightening up. He pointed a shaky finger at the motorbike. “That – that contraption is a danger to society!”

“...yeah, you're alright,” Fitz replied, rolling his eyes. He turned to Morse. “You okay, officer?”

“Constable. And I'm fine. What were you doing whipping about on that thing?” He had half a mind to book him with a traffic offence but ultimately decided not to.

“Just pulling it around to drier ground so it doesn't get wedged in the snow,” Fitz replied. He glanced over the car and grimaced. “Wow. Did more damage than I expected.”

“It's not my car,” Morse said.

Fitz brightened up. “Well that's okay then!”

“Sergeant Crunch might beg to disagree!” Morse protested. “Hey – what are you doing?”

Fitz had plucked the keys from his hand and was climbing into the car. He raised a finger to his lips. “Shhh. He doesn't have to know. We'll drive this near that tree and pretend a branch fell on it and caused this damage.”

“What? No!” Morse pulled him out of the car and snatched the keys back.

Fitz raised his hands defensively. “What? It's a solid plan! Why make him angry when we can just blame mother nature?”

It was... tempting, Morse had to admit, but honesty won out. Besides, Crunch would just rage at him anyway for parking in an irresponsible spot.

“No,” Hugh cut in, before Morse could say anything. “No, you will tell him God's honest truth and then buy him a new car!”

“I'll buy him some new paintwork,” Fitz replied, rolling his eyes. “But not an entirely new car!”

Hugh shook a finger at his nephew. “You will meet a sticky end, my boy, if you keep on refusing to take responsibility for your actions.” He vigorously straightened his jacket and turned towards the house. “Constable, I shall be barricaded in my room.”

“Okay.”

“If you need me knock three times and hoot like a barn owl.”

 _How about no,_ Morse thought, but Hugh was already striding off. Fitz licked his middle finger and wiggled it at his uncle's back as he departed, stopping only when Morse shot him an odd look.

“Don't worry about my uncle,” he said. “He's always been paranoid as hell.”

“I see.”

They made their way indoors. Fitz turned to head off down a different corridor, but Morse caught his elbow, supposing he ought to take the time to get to know the other members of the family a little better on the off-chance that they were involved.

“Were you close to your uncles?”

Fitz burst out laughing; hacking guffaws so mighty that he had to bend over and lean against the wall. “ _God_ , no! I hadn't seen any of my family for at least a year! Truth be told I'm here for the free food.”

“What about your mother? The rest of the family?”

“My mum's related to Aunt Helen, not the Cunningham brothers. After the divorce she didn't really talk to them that much.” He snorted loudly. “Or Aunt Helen all that much, either. Sour old cow.” At Morse's raised eyebrow, he gave an unrepentant shrug. “We're the black sheep of the family. Me, mostly.”

“Why's that then?”

“The Cunninghams – and the Beaumonts, Mum's maiden name – they're pretty high and mighty families 'round here. And high and mighty families don't run away with Japanese businessmen.” He paused, as though gauging Morse's reaction.

Morse didn't give him much of one. He'd suspected some form of Asian ancestry in Fitz anyway. “Where's your father now? He didn't come to the reunion?”

“To have people spit in his face? Not likely! He's back in Tokyo. Business.”

“Your parents are still together then?”

“Yeah. They have a weird thing; live on opposite sides of the world and pretty much just ignore each other. Still married though.” He tilted his head questioningly. “Am I a suspect?” he demanded. “Why the sudden interest?”

“I just like to have all the facts. You said you had an alibi. Dinner with the family.”

“Yeah, that's right.” He ran a hand through his hair. “And that can be confirmed by everyone who I argued with at table.”

“Argued?”

He nodded. “Alex hates me. Something about 'chucking away opportunity'. Can't blame him; must be hard being adopted, especially when...” He trailed off a bit awkwardly, and Morse nodded. The countryside was far more predominantly conservative – and white – than the cities were.

“Anyway,” Fitz continued. “You need to know anything else? I have some delicious childhood horror stories if you like.”

“I think that'll be all. Oh, wait, one more thing – who stands to inherit right now? Both from Daniel and Richard?”

“Daniel had an older son – Lenny. Couldn't make it to the reunion; he's on the continent. I imagine it'll mostly be split between him and Helen. Maybe Alex, I don't know. Uncle Dickie wasn't married, no kids. Maybe Uncle Hugh or Cecily?” He shrugged. “Not me, in any case!”

“Right,” Morse said. “Thanks.”

“Sure thing buddy. See you at tea.” Fitz wandered off, whistling to himself, and Morse thoughtfully headed back towards Helen's study to arrange to interview the staff.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Above family tree attached. Those who are whited out are dead.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it so far! This is a story I wrote quite a while ago, on the train as a gift for my sister, so as I've got quite a bit of it done already I'll be updating regularly for a little while :)
> 
> (also I left this for a few months, forgot who the murderer actually was, and then had to go back and solve it myself *brick'd* but I worked it out so it's all good.)


	2. Chapter 2

 Two hours later Morse came to the conclusion that none of the staff were remotely involved.

It was a bit of a waste of time, this hanging around the manor business – it was quite evident that it had been an outside force relating to Cheriton – and while he was glad to be doing interviews instead of traipsing about in the freezing snow and mud, he was starting to get frustrated at the lack of leads of any sort.

He was sitting deep in thought, going back over the case so far in his head to see if he'd missed anything, when he felt something nudging his leg under the table. He looked down and to his surprise found a large yellow cat pottering about on the floor. As soon as it realised he had noticed it, it let out a loud _miaow_ and rubbed up against his legs, staring up at him pitifully.

“Shoo,” he said, pushing his chair back and making an attempt to usher it out of the room. It took this, however, as an invitation to jump up onto his lap, its tail waving about in his face.

Biting back a sigh, he picked it up and put it on the floor.

It walked in a circle around the chair and then jumped straight back up onto his lap.

Giving up, he let it arrange itself on his knees and absently scratched at its head as he flicked back through the notebook where he'd been writing down everything he'd garnered from interviews.

The door to the drawing room opened suddenly, and he jumped. On his lap the cat stirred, its head snapping upright.

Cecily crept into the room with a slightly awkward wave.

“Hi. Sorry to interrupt,” she said, and scuttled over, coming to sit opposite him. “Oh! Pavlova likes you.”

“Pavlova?” he questioned, and glanced down at the cat, wincing a bit when it started kneading its paws, sharp claws digging into him through the fabric of his trousers.

“Yes. She was Uncle Daniel's cat. I think she's missing him a bit. Poor dear.” She leaned over the table to scratch it behind the ears.

“Ballet fan, was he?”

“Not as far as I know. I think she's named after the food, actually.” She leaned back again and produced a thick yellow envelope package. “This arrived just then! I told the butler I'd bring it for you.”

“Ah! Thank you.” He took it, ripping it open along the top. It was the case file on Cheriton. He flicked through it, then glanced at Cecily, unwilling to start opening up evidence related things in front of her.

She didn't appear to notice, remaining where she was, chin resting in her hands atop the table. She was a pretty girl, Morse noted, but rather vacant looking, with blank blue eyes like a china doll and rather big, fish-like lips.

“Where's that inspector of yours?” she asked suddenly.

Morse blinked. “What, Thursday? He's out. Scouting the countryside for the killer.”

“Oh,” she replied. “How come you're not out there too?”

“I'm pursuing other lines of enquiry,” he replied.

“How's that going then?”

“Fine.” And then, when she continued to stare at him expectantly, “I'm... not meant to discuss casework with civilians.”

“Ohh.” She pouted. “But it was my uncle that got killed!”

“Still.”  
  
“How's Dad then? Locked in his bedroom?” She leaned back, stretching her arms behind her head. “So he's next, is he? How perfectly alarming.”

Morse laid the file aside, studying her speculatively. “You don't sound perfectly alarmed.”

She gave a small smile. “It doesn't seem quite real. Uncle Danny died very suddenly, and now Uncle Richard – it's like a bad dream.”

“How did he die, by the way?”

“He took ill very suddenly. The doctor said it was his exposure to radiation.”

“Radiation?” Morse asked, and she nodded.

“Yes. He was part of the British Commonwealth Occupation Force after the war. Spent some time around Hiroshima.” She shrugged. “I don't know much about it.”

“How much do you know about your father's work?” he asked.

“Not much.”

“Did you know Jay Barathal?”

“Oh, yes, of course. He was a good friend of my father and Uncle Richard. They worked together. He's dead too, you said? It certainly sounds like they're going after the board. I know they were having trouble with some union – something about them manufacturing overseas, not letting enough jobs come from the home front.”

“Yes, Hugh told me about that.”

“Well then. Look into that and you'll probably have your killer.” She gave a wide smile. “Is it exciting being a detective?”

He blinked, a little confused by the sudden change in topic.

“I love murder mysteries,” she continued, then added hastily, “Not when they involve my family being killed, of course. But... in general. Reading about them. Is it peculiar for you to read murder stories since you solve them in real life?”

“I don't... read them that much,” he replied, quite unsure where to go with this conversation.

She seemed to sense his awkwardness and gave a rather loud, shrill laugh, promptly looked at him with the sort of patronising fondness one gives a small child, and then flounced off out of the room leaving him a little bit offended and a great deal confused.

 

* * *

 

 

It was past seven when the others finally got back. The snow outside was falling heavier and heavier, the winds getting strong enough that the constant rustling of the branches and leaves on the trees outside undercut every other sound in the house.

Morse met them down in the foyer. All three of them were soaking wet and looked exhausted and cold. It seemed it had been too dark outside for Crunch to notice the state of his car.

“Find anything?” Morse asked, as he helped Thursday out of his coat.

“A few things,” Thursday began, but then caught sight of most of the family lingering in the doorway of the coat room curiously, and shut his mouth. “Tell you later.”

Helen pushed her way to the front of the crowd. “Please join us for tea, inspector,” she said, “We were all quite occupied this evening and it got late enough that we decided to wait for your return.”

“Of course,” Thursday replied. Most people had begun traipsing off towards the dining hall. He fell back towards Morse as they walked. “How'd you get on with that Cheriton file?”

“A few leads,” Morse began, then noticed Cecily lurking around nearby. Thursday followed his gaze and the girl gave him a shy sort of smile before darting off.

“Is Inspector Beckett not coming?” Morse asked, glancing over at Crunch, who was still hanging around them.

“He went back to the station,” Crunch replied with a sniff.

Jakes cleared his throat. He looked rather dour; a combination of the terrible weather and prolonged exposure to Timothy undoubtedly to blame. “Crunch here has decided to bless us with his help in the investigation. He'll be staying at the manor as well.”

“I do know the farmland rather better than you,” Crunch snapped back. “Didn't step in any rabbit holes, did I?”

Jakes glowered at him.

Tea with the extended Cunningham family was... interesting. They all sat around a long, rectangular table, where Helen placed herself at head and Thursday at foot. Hugh insisted on seating himself between Thursday and Alex, as he for some reason had decided that they were the two most likely to be able to defend him should murderers leap through the windows and attack.

Morse found himself in the rather unfortunate position of being between Fitz and Crunch. As Crunch was left handed and Fitz was in the habit of very vigorously carving his meat, there were elbows flying at him from all directions and he had to do quite a bit of dodging to avoid being brained.

“So Inspector Thursday!” Cecily piped up after ten minutes of chewing in silence. “It must be very exciting working for the police! Please tell us some stories of your adventures.”

“Uh,” Thursday said through a mouthful of steak.

“We do not talk about murder at table,” Helen cut in sternly.

“Well, it doesn't have to be _murder_ ,” Cecily said. “How about a theft? Was there ever an exciting theft?”

Thursday swallowed and laid down his cutlery. “I'm afraid you'll find that being a copper is a lot more... mundane than detective stories would have you believe,” he replied with tact.

Fitz snorted loudly. “Get your head out of the clouds, cousin,” he said with his mouth full. “Crime is not all that exciting.”

“You would know,” Alex replied.

Fitz turned to Morse. “My cousin there has made a study in how to be most effectively passive aggressive. It's an art form.”

 _Please leave me out of this_ , Morse thought, and gave an awkward sort of smile.

“ _Fitzwilliam_ over there,” Alex snapped, “dropped out of school. And by dropped out I mean was kicked out. What is it you do now, Fitz? Construction?”

“ _De-_ struction, actually,” Fitz replied cheerfully, “Demolition. I tear down buildings. Alex was a _homeschooler_.”

“You tried homeschooling too, didn't you?” Alex shot back. “Didn't have the discipline for it. I don't think tearing down buildings is all you do nowadays.”

Thursday's head snapped up and every policeman at the table turned to look at Fitz, who just grinned nonchalantly around a mouthful of peas.

“Fitz was a terribly bright child,” Sybil broke in, looking rather horrified that they were airing the family's dirty laundry in front of the police. “His talents just didn't incline towards arithmetic, or literature.”

“Or anything else, really,” Alex said.

Helen cleared her throat loudly and Alex glanced at her. At his adoptive mother's stern glare he looked a little bit chastised and turned to focus back on his dinner.

“Tomorrow we will discuss the estate,” Helen said after a few minutes. “Cousin Robert here has been making a few calls and as he specialises in this sort of thing, will begin to work out who gets what.”

“You're a lawyer?” Thursday asked, and the shy little man squinted up at him through his spectacles.

“Yes,” he said quietly, “Probate lawyer.”

Thursday hmmmed. “Convenient,” he said, and Robert nodded almost sheepishly.

Dinner ended after three more petty arguments between Alex and Fitz, and Crunch somehow managing to time his knife movements so as to cause Morse as much grief as possible. Finally they left the table, where the butler (whose name, they discovered, was Edgar) showed the policemen up to their rooms.

“I'm afraid,” Edgar said, “That as there are so very many people staying in the house at the moment, two of you will have to share.”

“Goodness me,” Crunch said, sneering at them from where he was lurking around in the corridor.

For a moment Morse thought Jakes was going to fob him off with the annoying country sergeant, but Thursday stepped in.

“You two share for now,” he said, looking between Jakes and Morse, “We'll probably only be here the one night.”

Edgar nodded. “I shall leave you to it, then.”

“One night?” Jakes asked, as they all traipsed into the shared room – it being the largest – in order to reconvene. “We'd be lucky to find the killer in that time.”

“There's little we can do here. We need to look into Cheriton more than anything,” Thursday said. “Morse and I will head off tomorrow and Beckett's going to call in more of county to help you and Crunch continue looking around here.”

“What did you find out there today?” Morse asked.

“A sheep farmer saw a trespasser running across his property towards the woods. Didn't recognise him as anyone in town,” Thursday said. “It looked like he was heading towards the forestry in the hills up above but Crunch says there's nothing up there.”

Crunch shook his head. “It's just land; belongs to a few people around here but hasn't been cleared into anything useful yet. With this weather he might not even survive the night. There's no shelter up there. A few sheep sheds, maybe.”

“It might not have been him, though,” Jakes pointed out. “Could've been a vagrant.”

“If he is hanging around to kill Hugh,” Morse said, “He's likely to come back down here.”

“Best keep him in the house then,” Thursday declared. “How about you, Morse, what you got on Cheriton?”

Morse passed him the file. “I haven't looked through the whole thing yet but it seems like there are two main groups out to get them. An activist group angry about the experimental drug trials taking place overseas, and a worker's union who was upset about their not offering manufacturing jobs to people in England. The latter is based in London and has been in trouble a few times with the police for making death threats. Cheriton was about to take a vote on making a deal with a Japanese drugs company, to open a manufacturing facility in Osaka.”

“That seems promising,” Thursday said. “You and I will head down there and have a poke about tomorrow.” He handed over a cardboard folder. “This was in Richard's suitcase. Looked like pretty normal business files to me, but maybe you can make something out of it.”

Morse nodded, taking it and putting it on the desk next to the Cheriton folder.

“Well then,” Thursday said. “I'll see you lot in the morning. Like you said, Crunch – in this weather he's not likely to get much farther tonight.”

Crunch and Thursday drifted out, leaving Morse and Jakes standing around in a rather uncomfortable silence.

Morse darted a glance at the sergeant. Although they had been briefly united this morning in their hatred of Crunch, they had not been getting on particularly well lately. The Great Spoiler Incident that took place in the tearoom a few days ago had not helped matters.

Jakes returned his look with a raised eyebrow, muttered something about going to take a bath, and left Morse sitting alone in the room. After a few moments he sat down at the desk and opened the file to continue where he had left off.

He entered a zone of concentration, vaguely registering the sounds of the manor's other occupants going to bed. When Jakes finally reentered the room he jumped, glancing at the clock to find that it was getting rather late.

“Bloody chilly out,” was Jakes' insightful assessment of their current situation. He kicked his suitcase, which they had retrieved from the pub earlier, under the bed. There was a single bed on either side of the room, the desk in between them with a lamp on either side. While the rooms themselves were quite nice – although the clawed feet on the beds were perhaps a tad garish – the manor itself was rather draughty.

Morse nodded.

Jakes' gaze fell on the file on the desk. “Anything new?”

“Not yet,” Morse replied, with a tired sigh that became a yawn halfway through. This set off a yawning spree between himself and Jakes that then led into a very awkward silence.

Jakes sat down on the bed, rather pointedly slammed a copy of _The Spy Who Came In From The Cold_ down beside him, and promptly lit a cigarette. Morse's heart sank.

“Do you have to?” he asked, and Jakes glanced up.

“What?”

“It's too cold to open the window.”

“Your point?"

“My point being that not all of us like to fill our lungs with smoke.” He frowned. “Some studies show that those are bad for you, you know.”

“Yeah, well some studies show that _talking very loudly_ means that _other people overhear your conversations_ ,” Jakes replied, and very deliberately puffed some smoke in his direction. “Doctors reckon it's good for your health, in any case. Clears the lungs.”

“ _Clearing the lungs with smoke_ ,” Morse repeated, slowly. Jakes just stared at him and blew some passive aggressive streams in his direction until he was forced to cough, flap his hand about, and pointedly turn back to his reading.

There was little else helpful in the file, but he read it cover to cover anyway, and then back through because he still felt like he was missing something. Something was wrong. Something was out of place.

“The board,” he began slowly, and heard a rustle from the bed as Jakes turned over to look at him. “The board are voting on this Japanese thing.”

“Yeah, that's why they're getting killed off.”

“Hugh told us Jay Barathal was _retired_ ,” Morse pointed out. “And himself too. So... why would they be killed? Why wouldn't the _current_ board members be?”

“Maybe it's a warning? They don't want them dead, just to make a different decision?”

Morse shook his head. It still felt _wrong_. He pulled Richard's folder of business files out and began looking through them instead.

The room had fallen into silence, little registering to him except the lines of text as they ran through his head. When Jakes spoke again, it nearly gave him a heart attack.

“Hey, are you going to read all night?"

“What?” Morse asked, turning to him and trying to slow his breathing down. He'd half forgotten where he was, that he wasn't the only one in the room.

He realised that it was very dark outside, the entire house still and quiet. Jakes himself was sitting up in bed, looking rather irritated, dark shadows under his eyes.

“It's past one in the morning, Morse,” Jakes snapped. “Don't you _sleep_?”

“Sometimes,” Morse replied automatically, and they both froze as there was a suddenly scratching noise from the door. He glanced at Jakes before getting up from his chair and opening it.

A loud _miaow_ had him looking down to see Pavlova sitting just outside. He gave a nervous laugh.

“What?” Jakes asked, leaning over to see. “Oh, for God's sake don't let it in-”

Too late. She had run into the room and promptly taken up residence on the foot of Morse's bed.

“It's probably cold out in the corridor,” Morse said.

Now that he wasn't engrossed in reading, he realised just how tired he was. Jakes flopped back against his pillow with a grumble.

“Just turn out the bloody light already,” he said, and Morse quickly moved to comply. His hand was on the switch when there was a sudden, faint _thud_ from just down the corridor.

“Did you hear that?” he asked.

Jakes gave a vague sort of mumble.

Morse fell silent, straining to listen. He could hear some curious, distant rustling sounds. He crept over to the door and peered out, but it was dark and empty, the doors to everyone's rooms closed. He ventured out further, wondering if it was coming from behind someone's door.

“Morse?”

He spun around to see Jakes, leaning against the doorframe of their room and very unamused.

“It's just the _wind_ ,” Jakes said, and then leapt aside as Pavlova abruptly dashed out of their room and down the corridor.

To Morse's astonishment, she stopped just in front of the wall and sat there, staring at it. There were no further sounds, but the cat remained sitting there, taking a few steps forward then back now and then.

“What's she doing?” Morse asked, quietly.

Jakes yawned loudly. “Not head pressing, is it?”

“Head pressing?”

“Neighbour had a cat once that used to press its head against the wall. Turned out it had some brain problem.”

“She's not 'head pressing', she's just...” He trailed off as Pavlova suddenly took a few steps back, hissing loudly, hair standing up on end before she turned tail and sped off in the opposite direction, vanishing into the darkness at the end of the hallway.

A sudden uneasy feeling had taken over him. The corridor felt suddenly very cold, the loud whistling of the wind outside very apparent. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was... off.

He heard Jakes sigh behind him before going back into their room, and after a moment followed, trying to put the strange events from his mind.

Like Jakes had said, it was probably just the wind.

 

* * *

 

 

And then, of course, they were snowed in.

Morse became aware of this fact because at an only marginally acceptable hour, Fitz deemed it necessary to make his way down the hallway banging loudly on everybody's doors and hollering, “ _Oi_ , guys, I _think we are snowed in!_ Come check!”

On the plus side, he learned what Jakes looked like with morning hair. _Floofy_ was one way to describe it.

The residents of the house gathered in the main hall. Morse had never quite understood rich peoples' obsession with dressing gowns; all of the Cunninghams were ensconced in them (save Fitz, who apparently slept shirtless and was somehow defying the very cold air permeating the entire manor. It was probably the sasquatch-worthy levels of chest hair that were keeping him warm).

“Snowed in?” Hugh Cunningham demanded. “Are we really?”

“Well, look out the window,” Fitz said.

They all peered out the window.

There seemed to have been some sort of blizzard the night before. A massive amount of snow had piled up against the doors, and the cars in the drive outside were not even visible for the swirling amount of white flakes and fog outside.

“It's still storming,” Helen observed drily. “Far too dangerous to leave the house, let alone get down that God awful hill.”

Crunch nodded. “The roads 'round here get icy in the hilly areas,” he piped up. His bedhead was perhaps even worse than Jakes'. “We're definitely stuck.”

Morse frowned from where he stood at the back of the group, hands jammed under his armpits in an attempt to keep warm.

Thursday popped up by his shoulder. “This puts a damper on our plans,” he muttered.

Morse turned to look at him. He seemed rather disgruntled.

“There's no way we're getting to the station. Trains probably aren't even running in this weather,” he continued. “Well. Suppose we can look through those files again.”

“This one already did that last night,” Jakes piped up, jabbing a thumb in Morse's direction.

Thursday raised his eyebrows.

“He's like a bloody robot,” Jakes continued. “Thought the cat was giving us clues.”

“I was _concerned_ by her strange behaviour,” Morse said indignantly.

“I told you. Probably put out by that storm,” Jakes scoffed.

“Alright,” Thursday cut in. “Well, it can't hurt to look more. You find anything while you were reading them last night?”

Morse promptly informed him of his concerns about Jay having been retired. Thursday nodded thoughtfully.

“That... does seem odd,” he said. “Could still be revenge for something they'd done in the past. In any case, we need to look more into the Cheriton-related factors. That still seems the most likely path.”

“Most likely, but not only,” Morse said. “Cecily told me Jay Barathal was a good friend of Richard's. He would have known about Richard coming here for the reunion.”

“That's a far cry from our previous lead.”

“But still possible,” Morse argued.

Helen cleared her throat loudly and they turned to see her standing behind them.

“I'm afraid you're stuck with us a while longer,” she said. “I just wanted to let you know that you may make yourselves at home as long as need be. Fortunately the blizzard didn't cause any power outages. We've rung for someone to come and clear the snow so you can get to the station as soon as possible, but as the Sergeant said, the roads around here aren't very forgiving of inclement conditions. It's likely to be dangerous to try and get down that slope.”

Thursday nodded. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

She flapped a hand and moved off, to be replaced by Hugh, who seemed on the verge of hyperventilating.

“It could be a set-up,” he gasped.

“What,” Thursday replied.

“This... this! To trap me inside the house!”

“Mr Cunningham,” Thursday said, sounding on his last tether, “I highly doubt that the _weather_ is conspiring against you!”

He just gave a tremulous moan before drifting off back towards his room. Morse hoped he intended to stay in there instead of following them around all day as he had previously.

 

* * *

 

De Bryn telephoned after breakfast, with Jakes taking the call and coming to inform them of what he'd said.

“Definitely the same person what killed the other two,” he said. “Most likely left handed. There was nothing really suss on the body. What's interesting is it wasn't a proper garrotte. Not a weapon. Probably just a bit of piano wire, or some such. Otherwise the cut would have been much sharper.”

“Piano wire?” Thursday asked with a frown. “The bloke's head was nearly cut off.”

Morse swallowed hard and tried not to picture that rather disturbing image.

“You'd need a lot of force to get that much out of a bit of wire,” Thursday continued, with raised eyebrows.

“Jay Barathal was found in an alleyway too,” Morse mused. “Well, a side street.”

“De Bryn said there weren't many bruises on the body. If they struggled, it wasn't for long.”

“Someone must have been tracking them, caught them by surprise,” Thursday said. “And no evidence at all on the bodies?”

Jakes shook his head. “Same as the others. Totally clean. Someone knew what they were doing.”

“Not a professional killer, though,” Morse said. “Or they'd have had a proper weapon. Why garrotting? Why not stab or shoot them? It seems unusual.”

Thursday rose. “I'm going to call the current members of the board and see if they can shed any light on who might have done this and why. Any further confirmation on these London unionists would be helpful.”

There was a slight ruckus from the corridor, and they peered out the door – it seemed the family were gathering in the library for the meeting to divide up the property. Thursday nodded for Morse to go and see what was going on.

 

* * *

 

The meeting was rather dull. Robert spent a great deal of time expounding on some rather technical legal concepts that half of his audience seemed unable to follow. Morse, lurking at a desk by the side of the library lounge area, had taken Richard Cunningham's business files with him and was looking through them again.

“So basically,” Fitz's voice cut through his reverie, “You're saying Lenny gets most of it, Helen gets a bit and Alex gets none?”

“That's what _would_ usually happen,” Robert said, and rubbed frantically at his glasses lens. “Legally speaking. But I'm not entirely sure it's what Daniel would have _wanted_.”

Helen nodded sternly. “Alex and Lenny will have an equal amount, I'm adamant on the fact.”

“It's not your money to be adamant about,” Hugh protested. “I'm his brother, what about me?”

Morse turned back to the file as an argument continued to break out. He frowned as, while idly flicking through one file, he noticed ' _Danny_ ' scrawled in pencil amongst the pages of notes.

These appeared to be drafts of both research papers and company related reports. Richard had annotated most of them. This particular one had a little too many technical and chemical terms for him to properly understand. It seemed to be about some sort of new drug and he caught a few mentions of 'traumatic war neurosis' being thrown about.

 _Danny._ Was it Daniel Cunningham, or someone else related to the company?

He looked up to find the meeting had broken up. Hugh looked irritated, Helen as well. Alex's face was set in a steely grimace. Morse rose to intercept Helen, but she left too quickly and he caught Alex instead.

“What?” the man asked, seeming rather impatient.

“I need to ask you a few questions,” Morse replied.

Alex frowned, but led him to the side of the room, to a quiet space between two large bookshelves. “What about?”

“Were you close to your father? Your adoptive father, I mean.”

Alex shrugged. “S'pose. He took me in when I was only little – four or five or so. He was a good man.”

“What was his job?”

“He wrote,” Alex replied. “He had quite a bit of money from the war, and he'd inherited a lot more, so he was fairly well off.”

“He didn't want to go into Cheriton like his brothers?”

“Not as scientifically inclined as they are. Were.” Alex raised an eyebrow. “What's Dad got to do with things? He wasn't murdered.”

“In Richard Cunningham's business notes I found something annotated with 'Danny'. Would that be referring to your father?”

A flicker of something passed across Alex's face almost too quickly for Morse to catch. Nervousness? Interest?

“I wouldn't know,” he replied. “Is that quite all?”

Morse nodded and let him go. He left the room and made his way up to Daniel Cunningham's study, intending to look around.

It seemed to have been tidied after his death; either that or he had been a neat freak for there was not a thing out of place. Everything was arranged at right angles and not a speck of dust dotted any surface. Morse scanned the books on his shelves – an unsorted mix of history, classical fiction, science, politics. His desk drawers were completely empty, and Morse frowned.

“Excuse me?” A voice came from the doorway.

He looked up to see Edgar.

“Can I help you?” the butler asked coldly, looking less than impressed to find Morse poking around in the study.

“Yes,” Morse replied. “The contents of these drawers – did someone do something with them?”

Edgar frowned, coming over to look. “I... they aren't usually empty,” he said. “I confess I've not been in here since Mr Cunningham passed. But I was not informed of anyone doing any cleaning out in here.”

“So it's normally this tidy?”

Edgar looked around and shook his head. “The maids dust every other day, but they don't remove things. There were papers and such in here before.”

That was strange. Definitely very strange.

“Who would have had access to these rooms?” Morse asked then, checking the rest of the drawers in the room and the filing cabinet and finding them all distinctly empty of everything save a few draft works of fiction that were of little use or relevance.

“Every member of the family who came to stay here,” Edgar replied. “This room wasn't locked up.”

“Who arrived first?”

“Mrs Cunningham – Helen. Then Alex, a day later. The rest the day after that.”

Morse nodded thoughtfully. He wandered back out into the hall and walked smack bang into Fitz, who was bundled up in a heavy winter coat.

“Hey,” the man said, catching him by the shoulders. “You doing anything right now?”

“Uh... no?”

“Good! Come with.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who kudo'd and especially those who commented! Much appreciated <3
> 
> Next up: Jakes takes an abrupt and unexpected trip underground.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to all who commented and left kudos! I hope you enjoy this next chapter~

Rather befuddled, Morse followed Fitz to a side door down near the kitchens, where Jakes, Crunch, and Alex were already waiting, all of them in winter gear. Before he quite knew what was happening, Fitz was jamming a woollen beanie onto his head and thrusting a shovel into his hand.

“We're clearing out the side passage to the bins,” the man explained. “For the kitchen staff.”

“Oh,” Morse replied. There were not that many servants at the manor. Edgar was the only man; there were also a cook and three maids who doubled as wait staff.

The passage from the kitchen door to the large outside bins was covered by an overhanging porch with a low rail to the side. Several inches of snow already covered the pathway, and there was a large buildup of it where it led to the bin area.

Stepping outside was like being slapped in the face with a huge block of ice. Morse felt his nose and cheeks grow numb and then start to burn almost instantly, and rather wished he had a scarf. The wind was whistling audibly, though the porch protected them from the worst of it, and misty white clouds formed with every breath.

Thursday was right about the coat, he thought grimly, he was already shivering.

He fell back beside Jakes as they trod through the snow towards the buildup. The other man glanced down at him.

“You right?”

“Hm? Fine. I just went to check out Daniel Cunningham's office.”

“What're you poking around in there for?”

“I found his name in one of Richard's files. At least I think it was referring to him. He didn't work for Cheriton, so why would his name be in there?” Noticing Alex giving them a curious glance back over his shoulder, he lowered his voice a little. “Someone cleaned out his office.”

Jakes paused. “What do you mean, cleaned out his office?”

“I mean everything in his desk drawers and filing cabinet was gone. The butler says the servants didn't take anything out after his death. It was one of the guests.”

Jakes pressed his lips together. “I thought we decided none of the family were involved.”

“It was definitely one of them who removed all the files. Why, and what, that's the question.”

“Just this part, guys,” Fitz directed, beginning to shovel through the thick piles around the bins. The rest of them spread out and started digging. It was hard work, as the snow was falling almost as fast as they dug and it had already compacted into solid icy sheets that required some force to break up and remove.

They had been digging for about twenty minutes when Jakes, working beside Morse, brought his shovel down hard against the ground and there was a suddenly splintering _crack_ followed by a loud thud as Jakes abruptly vanished from sight.

“The hell was that?” Alex shouted, voice loud to be heard above the wind.

Morse spun around to find a dark, gaping hole in the ground where Jakes had been standing. He dropped his shovel and rushed over. There were broken, rotting wooden planks around the hole. It seemed they had been covered by snow and fell apart when he started digging.

“Jakes!” he called. The others had made their way over, and he peered down into the hole. It was about seven feet deep, light spilling in through the hole above.

Fitz grabbed his shovel and started breaking the planks off to make the hole bigger.

Jakes sat at the bottom, looking rather stunned. As Crunch and Alex moved to help Fitz, more light flooded into the gap. It seemed to be some sort of cellar, with wooden walls and a dirt floor with patchy tiling.

“Are you hurt?” Morse asked.

Jakes staggered to his feet and winced. “I'm fine,” he replied, then added, in a rather annoyed tone, “God damn random hole in the ground! I've turned my bloody ankle, give me a hand up.”

Morse reached out his hand but the hole was a bit too deep to pull him up out of.

“Jump in there and boost him up,” Fitz advised, still working away at the rest of the planks.

He lowered himself into the hole, landing with a slightly jarring impact on the stone and dirt floor. Something hard and round rolled under his foot before snapping beneath his weight. He stumbled, reaching out to catch himself against the wall, and turned to see what he had tripped on-

A bone.

Oh, God, it was a bone, and then Fitz and Alex pulled away a large, rotting section of wood and light flooded the hole and there were bloody _bones everywhere_.

Not just bones. _Half a decomposing body_.

Morse literally felt the blood drain from his face. His vision actually flashed white for a moment, his head swimming as he turned bodily away, retching.

“ _Jesus Christ_ ,” he heard Jakes hiss beside him, with a few gagging noises of his own.

A stream of curses were hailing from above them as the others realised what they had seen, but Morse was rather focused on bracing himself against the wall and trying very, very hard not to throw up.

Cutting through the crisp, cold air was the most terrible smell of rotting flesh. He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to focus.

Something slapped him in the side of the face, and he jerked, turning to see Jakes staring at him intently.

“Don't you dare pass out,” Jakes snapped, “Because I'm not bloody lifting you up out of this hole!”

“I'm not _going_ to,” Morse replied angrily, though it came out rather shakier than he liked.

“Get out of there,” Fitz was yelling, “Get the hell out of there, that is _weird_ and _terrifying_!”

Morse decided then that he was not going to faint but he was also not going to _look_ , as one glimpse had been quite enough for him. Pointedly averting his eyes from the dark corner where the – _don't think about it, don't think about it_ – was, he gestured for Jakes to come over to the wall, and gave him a boost up where Fitz and Alex promptly grabbed his arms and pulled him the rest of the way onto solid ground. As Morse had both ankles intact it was little trouble for him to hop himself partway up the wall and be similarly assisted.

“You alright?” Fitz asked, as he gripped Morse's arm and hauled him up. His face was ashen. “That is some messed up shit, man.”

“Why is there a hole full of bones and bodies in your garden?” Jakes demanded, rounding on Alex, who raised his hands defensively.

“I don't _know,_ Sergeant,” he replied, “I never lived in this house!”

Morse caught sight of Crunch, standing a little way away. The man looked horrified. His face was white as a sheet, mouth open slightly, stunned into total silence. After a minute he seemed to snap back into himself and turned away, shaking his head and muttering something Morse couldn't quite catch under his breath.

“Let's get Thursday,” Jakes said, and began limping back towards the house. They all trailed after him. Morse glanced back over his shoulder. The hole into the cellar was dark and ugly, a gaping wound against the crisp surface of the snow. The uneasy feeling started up in him again.

 

* * *

 

 

Thursday had heard a great deal of crashing and swearing from outside, and he and Helen were both on their way to the side door when the others re-entered. His brow furrowed at the sight of one of his detectives limping and the other shaking like a leaf.

“What's going on out there?” he asked.

Jakes jabbed a finger out the window. “I fell into a hole full of dead bodies!”

“ _What_?” Thursday and Helen demanded in unison.

Fitz nodded frantically. “It's full of _bones_! And there was half a person in there!”

Apparently deciding that he had to see this for himself, Thursday elbowed his way past them and marched outside. Helen, Jakes and Alex followed him, but Morse opted out, leaning against the kitchen wall and doing some frantic repressing of memories.

_What is going on here?_ He squeezed his eyes shut and attempted to make sense of things.  _That was a cellar. It is full of bones. Human looking bones. Not a grave site. Hidden bodies, then. Bodies that were murdered. Someone else was murdered here. It doesn't make sense._

“Hey,” Fitz said beside him. His eyes snapped open to find the man proffering a bottle of alcohol. He took a swig, relishing the burn that both warmed him and settled his nerves, and then passed the bottle to Crunch.

“This family is insane,” Fitz continued, shaking his head. “I swear, this entire trip has been one crazy disturbing thing after another. Uncle Dan turns green and carks it without warning, Uncle Dickie is killed, and now there's a damn basement of horrors under the backyard. Like a bloody horror movie.”

“Turns green?” Morse asked, but suddenly Crunch was grasping at his elbow.

“It's a ghost,” the man croaked.

Morse gave him an odd look, and Crunch nodded vigorously. He was trembling all over.

“I... there were stories. That this big manor was haunted. Didn't help that Daniel Cunningham never left the house. People went missing, sometimes – runaway cases, we thought they were. Animals, too. It was... a story. About a ghost up here.”

“What are you going on about?” Morse asked.

Fitz frowned. “You're a local boy, right?” he asked Crunch. “Grew up here?”

Crunch nodded. “I never believed them. But now...” He peeked out the window and then shied back in.

Morse scoffed. He had never been superstitious himself – was far too logical for that. “There's a difference between murderers and ghosts, Crunch.”

Crunch just shook his head. “It's strange, is all.”

“Why didn't you bring this up earlier?” Morse asked.

“It was a _ghost story_. I told you, I never believed them. Some said Daniel Cunningham was the ghost, others that the manor was just haunted.”

“It certainly seems like Uncle Dan might have been getting up to some shifty business,” Fitz began, then broke off as the other three re-entered the house, looking grim as all hell.

Helen was the first to round on them, pointing a stern finger. “Do _not_ tell Hugh about this,” she ordered. “The last thing he needs is to start getting ideas.”

Morse glanced at Thursday, who nodded.

“We won't start a panic,” he said. “We've covered the hole back over.”

“What is it?” Morse asked.

Thursday sighed, running a hand over his face. “Hard to say without De Bryn here. Looks like an old storm cellar, but it's been boarded off for a while now. The wood started rotting in the wet it seems.”

“And the bodies?”

“Most of the bones are animals,” Thursday replied, grimly. “Cats, dogs, some squirrels. But there... from what I could see, one full human skeleton and a partial. Can't tell much more than that. The half body looks a few months old. Young man, from what I saw. Not much left to go on. I'll ring up Beckett and ask about missing person's cases around here.”

“Daniel Cunningham killed them, then,” Jakes began, and Helen gave a grunt of disapproval.

“My ex husband was not a murderer,” she said sternly. “He was not a particularly careful man, either. I doubt he'd checked that cellar in years. Anyone could have stashed them in there.”

“How long did he live in this house?” Thursday asked.

“Eight years or so. He moved here after the divorce,” Helen replied. “Before that it belonged to a distant aunt. Old lady who lived here alone after her husband passed.”

“Crunch here says there were ghost stories about Daniel,” Morse contributed. Crunch shot him a poisonous glare, looking a bit sheepish now. “That he never left the house.”

Helen shook her head. “That doesn't mean he was a serial killer! He was a quiet man, shy. A bit strange after the war.”

“My father did not kill anybody,” Alex cut in, eyes cold and hard. “I'd appreciate it if you didn't blemish his good name without any proof.”

“No one's blaming anyone at the moment,” Thursday informed them. “But we came here to investigate a murder and now it seems we've uncovered another one."

Crunch cleared his throat, then. “This is county's jurisdiction,” he spoke up. “I'll speak to Beckett about it.”

 

* * *

 

 

“We're sure it was murder?” Morse asked.

They were all sat in his and Jakes' room, trying to piece things together. They had had to lock the door because Fitz kept trying to come in and contribute his opinions to the conversation.

Jakes nodded. He had his ankle up on a stack of pillows, a bag of ice draped over the top of it and the incessant Pavlova curled up on his lap.

“The skeleton's head was smashed in. I got a good look at it,” he said. “The other one looked battered as all hell. I wonder where the other half of him was.”

Morse swallowed a mouthful of bitter saliva that had risen up. “It could be unrelated,” he said, “But I doubt it. Daniel Cunningham is involved somehow – has to be. And someone in this house knows about it. That's why they removed all his files.”

“Unless they destroyed them, they could still be in the house,” Thursday mused. “I asked Hugh about those notes you showed me, Morse, the ones with Daniel's name scribbled on them. He said he knew nothing about them, that he was in the accounting side of the business- but they looked like the forms they made up whenever they were starting some sort of experimental treatment.”

“For Daniel?” Jakes asked.

Thursday shook his head. “Hugh said he wasn't on any medication at all.”

“Fitz told me he turned green,” Morse said absently, and Jakes gave a mighty snort.

“He's not the bloody Wicked Witch of Oz,” he replied. “ _Turned green._ Who doesn't turn green when they're ill?”

“I've never turned green in my life,” Crunch informed them, just to be contrary.

“The folks at Cheriton said they weren't in any trouble, far as they knew,” Thursday said. “Richard was as good as retired anyway – just hadn't gotten around to formalising it yet.”

“I'm starting to think it has nothing to do with London at all,” Morse mused. “So we can't get De Bryn back in here?”

“Not with this snowstorm still raging,” Thursday said, and sighed. “Might as well just sit tight and wait for it to finish up. I'll go call Beckett now.”

A moment after he left the room, there was a crash from outside as a branch fell from one of the trees onto the roof. They all jumped, and Crunch let out a rather unmanly yelp.

Jakes sneered at him. “Not still jumping at ghosts, are you?”

“Shut up,” Crunch snapped back, and stalked out.

Pavlova jumped off Jakes' lap and sprawled in the middle of the floor. The two of them watched the cat for a few moments before Jakes spoke up.

“You ought to go take another look at that cellar,” he said.

Morse glanced at him. “Why?”

“Well, you jumped out of there like your pants were on fire,” Jakes said, a bit snappishly, “I don't know, don't you like to get a thorough look at things? Do your deductions or whatever. You might see something we missed.” This added very quickly and almost defensively.

Morse looked away. He really did not like that hole, and was not particularly inclined to go back there.

“S'pose it's too cold out, now,” Jakes said, and looked out the window. It had gotten dark remarkably early, and the entire glass pane was covered in a thick layer of frost.

“Daniel's study was turned out,” Morse said, a thought occurring to him. “How about his bedroom? Whoever took all his things might not have thought to look there."

“Worth a shot,” Jakes replied. He swung his feet down onto the floor and winced. Morse made to help, but was waved away. “I'm fine.”

They headed off in search of Edgar.

“Not to be cliched, but you don't suppose the butler's involved?” Jakes asked. “After all, it wasn't just Daniel living here that whole time.”

“Hard to tell. I didn't get the impression he knew Daniel all that well,” Morse replied. “He doesn't even normally sleep here all the time. Lives down in the village when there aren't guests.”

Edgar was found down in the servant's hall, and promptly informed them that Daniel's bedroom had been locked since his death and no one but himself had the key, which Morse was very pleased about. He led them up to the room, which was at the very end of the hallway on the third storey.

The bedroom was as neat as the study had been, which meant that whoever went in there hadn't tampered with the arrangement of things, but was far less bare. A typewriter sat on a nearby desk, surrounded by scattered bits of paper. Morse picked one up. It was some sort of story, he gathered. A quick perusal revealed it to be some rather shocking romantic drama. Not his sort of thing at all.

He looked about the rest of the room. A handful of records lay by the bed, a mixture of classical and jazz. Morse was taken for a moment by one particular vintage recording of _The Marriage of Figaro._

“Nothing in the drawers,” Jakes said, slamming them shut. “Just more writing stuff. And this photo album.”

Morse headed over and picked it up. It was a particularly fat album and seemed to span from the war until just recently.

“Could be useful,” he said, tucking it under his arm.

There was a door on the far side of the room that he assumed led into a closet of some sort. When he opened it, however, he was surprised to find that everything inside was smashed up. Clothes lay strewn across the floor, shelves were smashed and broken to pieces.

“Odd,” Jakes said, popping up over Morse's shoulder. “Was he bedridden, towards the end?”

“I got that impression,” Morse replied. He shut the door slowly.

 

* * *

 

It was, again, past midnight by the time Morse finished looking through the photos. He let out a sigh, reaching up to rub his eyes, which ached from time spent staring at the black and white stills under the harsh yellow lamplight.

Jakes turned over from where he was lying in bed, having resigned himself to another late night courtesy of his roommate's borderline insomniatic casework.

“Anything?”

Morse nodded. When Jakes made no move to get up, he picked up the photos and wandered over to sit on the edge of his bed.

“These are from the war and post-war reconstruction in Japan,” he said, holding up a few. Daniel Cunningham stared out from the centre of them. He looked a great deal like his two brothers.

Jakes sat up a bit. “And these with him?”

“I think that's Alex's father,” Morse said, pointing at a uniformed black man with a grizzled beard. “He features prominently. And this other man does as well. He's not named, but he's in almost every war picture with Daniel.”

The man was tall and white, with dark hair and intense eyes.

“No name?” Jakes asked, and Morse shook his head.

“I'll ask Helen tomorrow if she knows who he is. Anyway, Alex's maybe-father vanishes after a while, but this other man sticks around, especially in these photos taken at Cheriton Pharmaceuticals.” He held up a few more, these featuring Richard and Jay Barathal as well as some other figures, a mixture of suit-clad business people and scientists in lab coats.

“That's from last year.”

“What's Daniel doing there?” Jakes asked. “Visiting? With his friend, too?”

“Looks like it.” Morse sighed. “The rest were mostly family pictures. Alex, Helen, a boy who I assume is Lenny. That sort of thing.”

“What about the ones taken in this house?”

“There aren't many. Just a few from when the boys visited. Nothing that indicates anything to do with those bodies we found. Oh, and this one.” He took out another of the Cheriton photos. A middle aged woman scientist was bent over a microscope. It looked fairly posed for a candid.

“What about her?” Jakes asked.

“Look,” Morse pointed. Where her ID stuck out of her pocket, the back end of her name was visible. “-guthy. That could be Sylvia Tuguthy, the woman who wrote that article that Daniel's name was scribbled on.”

“Seems like a solid lead,” Jakes agreed.

Morse nodded. He went back over to the desk and flipped open Tuguthy's article.

Jakes groaned. “You've not done enough for tonight?”

“I just want to look through this again.”

“Well, I'm turning off my light,” Jakes informed him, and promptly did so, leaving Morse sitting in his own little patch of lamplight, the rest of the room in darkness.

 

* * *

 

 

Morse didn't even realise he'd fallen asleep until he was jerked awake by a bloodcurdling scream.

He jolted upright from where he'd been slumped over on the desk, heart pounding, head spinning with the sick disorientation that came with sleeping too late and too little. For a moment he tried to register what was happening, and then the scream came again – from down the hall. It was a woman's voice.

“The hell,” Jakes demanded, already getting out of bed. He glanced at Morse and they made for the door.

Lights were turning on and doors opening in the hallway. It was nearly dawn, still dark for the bad weather and time of year. Thursday, who slept across the hall, emerged with a frown, everyone heading in confusion for the source of the noise.

A maid was slumped against the stairwell, gasping in horror. Before her a body lay on the ground. Thursday rushed forward instantly as the crowd of people behind him – most of the other residents of this floor – began to shout and scream.

Morse himself caught a glimpse. It was cousin Robert, fallen just on the top of the stairs, quite dead. His eyes stared sightlessly up at them, his tongue half-lolling out of his mouth. Fresh blood leaked from a wound on his forehead. There were deep red marks around his throat.

“Murder!” Sybil screamed, shrill and right in Morse's ear. “Oh my God! Bobby's been murdered!”

“Calm down,” he said, turning to her. She was flapping about and he grasped her arm, pushing her back slightly. “Everyone calm down!” he shouted, in a vague attempt to gain control of the chaos.

Cecily had burst into tears and was clinging to Fitz, who looked rather grim. Alex and Helen were demanding answers, eyes fixed on the body. There was no sign of Hugh, most likely hiding in his room from the noise.

“What's happening?” Crunch jogged up, late, and blanched at the sight. “Did he fall?”

“Looks like he was strangled,” Thursday said grimly, straightening up.

Morse exchanged a glance with him. “By the same?”

Thursday replied, but Morse could barely hear him over the din the others were making.

“ _Everybody shut up_!” Helen hollered suddenly. She was met with far more success than Morse had been.

“Inspector,” she continued, turning to Thursday, “What should we do?”

“Everybody get back in their rooms,” Thursday ordered. “And _stay there_!”

The hallway fell silent except for mutters and sobs as everyone hastened to comply.

Morse crept over to the shocked maid. “What did you see?”

“I...” she gasped a few times, glanced at the body again, then seemed to pull herself together a bit. “I was on my way to do the morning cleaning when I... I found him.”

“Just then?”

She nodded. Thursday moved up and put a hand on her back, guiding her down the hall.

“You go back to your room now. Tell the other girls not to leave. We'll deal with things.”

She scuttled gratefully off, leaving the police alone with the body. Morse moved up to the wall. There was a stain of blood on the top of the stair post where Robert had presumably had his head bashed against it.

“Blood's sticky but still wet,” Jakes said, where he was crouched beside the body. “Looks like it happened an hour ago at most.”

Thursday nudged the body over onto its back. Morse glanced again and honed in on the marks around Robert's neck. He forced himself to get closer, get a better look.

“It wasn't the same person,” he said. “Or at least, not the same weapon. These marks are rough, bruises more than a cut. Not wire. A rope or a cloth of some sort.”

Thursday nodded. “Spread out. Check the doors and windows, see if someone could have broken in.”

“Not likely with this weather,” Crunch replied, but they obeyed.

Morse took the Eastern wing of the house, but Crunch was right – the storm was raging worse than ever outside, the snow piled up against the walls even higher than it had been the day before and near gale-force winds sending the branches of the surrounding trees lashing against the glass of the windows.

There was no sign of any break in.

As he was heading back through an empty corridor, he froze as he heard an odd sound. The same rustling thump there'd been when Pavlova was startled the night before. He moved closer, pressing his hands flat against the wallpaper, then his ear. Nothing.

Thursday rounded the corner, startling him. “Morse! What are you doing?”

He sprang back away from the wall. “I- I thought I heard something.”

Thursday paused, listening, but of course now the sounds had vanished entirely. He gave a grunt and headed off back down the corridor, Morse quickly following.

“All the maids were sleeping in their staff room. Edgar in the room just beyond,” Thursday said. “The door creaks loudly, it'd have woken them. They've got an alibi.”

“There is no way anybody broke in here,” Morse agreed.

Thursday pressed his lips together tightly. “Which means it was someone in the house,” he said grimly.

 

 

 

* * *

 


End file.
